< by Annie of Third Wave Domesticity >

My first kiss is not a sweet story, it’s not dreamy, but it’s real, it’s a representation of growth.

My first kiss was a point of shame in my life for a long time. I experienced this kiss when I was 14 by a boy who I didn’t know. A boy I can’t even remember the name of.

I was sexually abused during the formative years of my life. I was taught that my body was an object to be taken advantage of, I did not understand that I had control and power over my body because of my abuse. I did not know what consent meant. I did not know that you could say no.

My first kiss was an extension of the victimization I had endured. I was vulnerable. I was insecure. He knew this and took advantage without batting an eye. For a long time I was very ashamed of this kiss. Everyone at school heard about our kiss and the sexual activities that took place after and created ideas about me.

I dated lots of boys after this encounter and kissed them all. At the beginning of each relationship I could not bear to touch them. I was uncomfortable initiating intimacy. I was uncomfortable with myself and my body. I was a victim, unsure of how to obtain power.

I realize though that my real first kiss happened seven years ago. My real first kiss happened when I kissed a freckly ginger. Unlike all of the others before, I was not scared to kiss this boy. In fact, I initiated. I lay with him in a bed after a party and kissed him. In that moment I moved from victim to survivor and took control over how I negotiated intimacy. I consciously consented to this kiss, without fear, without reservations. I took ownership of my sexuality and body in that moment.

I married this sweet boy. I married my first kiss.